


The Debt

by Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr



Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr/pseuds/Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Special Operations is too much work for one mech, how do you find people you can trust?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this fic has two different endings, one j/p and one not.

In the most unsavory corner of LowTown Iacon a young mech stood, chips in hand, in an even more unsavory smoke-filled gambling den. He was waiting for the dice to fall.

His flashy colors, obtained in an early life much kinder than the one he now led, had been dulled by endless nights in the worst casinos Cybertron and the surrounding worlds had to offer. Golden chevron, azure helm, capri body work with a tractor red hood and pristine white highlights had become scruffy and faded, more steel and maroon with light gray highlights and a more yellow than anything chevron. At the moment his paint job was the last thing on his mind, his clear blue optics fixed on a set of dice held loosely in a chute positioned over the table he was leaning against.

The chips in his hand represented his last hope in the wide world of Cybertron, and several of the outlaying colonies. If he lost them, if the dice didn't fall his way, he would quite literally be dead. His last loan had come due and he had nothing but the chips in his hand, which were committed on the board, to pay it with. They weren't nearly enough.

"Hold up," a voice said from his right, just as the facilitator was about to toss the small metal cubes. Smokescreen glanced at the newcomer with no short amount of irritation, taking in his dirty white finish, silver charming grin and black helm in half a glance. A second look, earned due to the slight familiarity of the profile, picked up the obviously fake blue optic panes and glint of red under them-- a badly disguised resident of Kaon. Or former resident.

Chips hit the table, knocking aside Smokescreen's carefully placed marker. It bounced and landed on a number with the worst odds on the table.

"Player is welcomed to the table," the drone controlling the game croaked in its grating monotone. "Pieces locked."

"Wha--" Smokescreen shot to his feet, optics paling. "His chips knocked my mark--"

It was too late. The dice fell, hitching slightly in the chute before bouncing onto the table. He had no choice to watch in something akin to pain as they clattered around the bowl and landed to equal...his former number. The one who the late addition to the game had claimed. After getting his winnings from the drone, the black and white mech flipped his marker to Smokescreen, who snatched it out of the air with a scowl.

"For luck," the other smirked, turning toward the cashier's cage.

"I was on hot action before you showed up to cool my table," the young blue and red mech spat, making to toss the small bit of metal into the nearest waist receptical when his thumb caught on a sharp edge. Glancing down, he caught the glitter of something other than metal on the marker and 'spaced it instead, grabbing his own marker and the two chips he had left from the table, frowning. The two chips were all he had and a glance at the room's chronometer confirmed that less than a megacycle remained until his deadline.

**

The door hissed open and revealed a bulk which took up almost the entire space. The large, heavily armored dark green femme with black and gray highlights in the doorway raised an optic ridge before waving him in. "I thought a mech as smart as you would know to get out of whatever trouble you're in before it brought you to my door."

Smokescreen crossed the room to sink down on the worn couch, head in his hands. "I'm dead. There's no going back."

Something bumped against his fingers and he lifted his head to see a mug at optic level. He took it and sat back, taking a mouthful and grimacing at the taste. The femme chuckled. "Ah, drink your medicine, mech. It's good for ya."

"This is a detox solution mixed with low-grade, Backslide," Smokes protested. "I'm not high. I'm also not overcharged."

"Coulda fooled me, talking like that." She settled her bulk onto a chair which seemed like it would give from any movement she made, giving him a look. "So you lost it all, on one last bet, did you? How long until you've got to pay up?"

"Half a mega-cycle." He bolted the rest of the low-grade and sighed. "I've said this before, but it wasn't my fault. I had it down, had warmed up the numbers and my marker was on the right one. And that number won, too!"

Backslide's expression quirked. "So why the sour face? Why aren't you gloating about being able to pay off?"

"Because this mech came over to the table, last nano, and threw this on, bumping my marker onto another number." Smokescreen fished the token out of subspace and tossed it to the femme, who caught it with ease. "That's his marker. He gave it to me, 'for luck', he said."

Backslide was examining the chip with a highly amused expression. "Have you looked at this?"

"I haven't had time."

The femme flipped it back to him, catching his attention with something glittering in the middle of the coin. He remembered the sharp edge his thumb had found and instead of subspacing the item again, he opened his hand to study it.

Its smooth chrome surface reminded him of some of the older buildings he had seen in Uptown Iacon, particularly the cool ceil-blue tinting. And in the center-- "Is that a crystal?"

"Yep. Not only a crystal, but a budding crystal, if I don't miss my guess." Backslide leaned back, the chair protesting but withstanding the movement. "You know who has a chrome marker with a crystal in the center, don't you?"

"I'm not stupid." Smokescreen was still staring at the chip, his mind working quickly. "I can use this."

"You bet your aft you can." Backslide was grinning. "I'll buy it off you, for the cost of your debt."

"Not on your life." Smokescreen flipped the marker up and caught it, grinning back at her. "Besides, you don't have enough to cover what I owe these mechs. Ghosts's marker's gonna get me level and keep me safe."

 


	2. Chapter 2

"You're quite relaxed for a dead mech."

Smokescreen smiled, leaning back on his heels and running his thumb over the crystal in the marker in his hand. "Am I?"

"You don't have enough to pay and we know your accounts are empty. Or have you just made peace with your return to Vector Sigma?"

The disk flipped up and caught the light, bringing all optics to it. Smokescreen's smile turned into a grin. "I'm not gonna return to the One just yet. Met up with a mech and he convinced me to take his marker in return of the creds."

Glances were exchanged and the next thing Smokescreen knew he was walking out the door with his audios still ringing. The threats not to return were music to him, the rancid air smelled like fine energon. He flipped the marker up again, grinning.

Before he could catch it, another hand reached out and plucked it from the air, encasing his new lucky charm in a black fist. He looked up into the grinning face of the mech the marker had originally belonged to. "Tradin' on a bad name?"

The voice was pure silver chrome, like the marker itself. The mech had gotten rid of the fake blue optics, though Smokescreen noted that these two didn't fit quite right. It made him wonder exactly what this mech's build was. "You Ghost?"

"It's a name."

The young gambler knew when he shouldn't ask more. "Then it was your name I was trading on."

"Might want t'be careful with that." The mech tilted his head, optics studying Smokescreen closely. He then flipped the marker back to him. When examining it, Smokescreen noticed the gem inside had been replaced by a different one-- or it was a different marker.

"Hey--" He lifted his head, but the mech was gone. "Guess that's why they call him Ghost," he mused, shaking his head slightly.

Back at the small room he currently called his own, he examined the new marker. It had a purple sheen, in the brighter light of his room, rather than the deep blue of the previous chip. The crystal in the center was mostly clear, revealing what looked like a spherical circuit board. Same kind of marker, far less valuable on the street, far more valuable to Ghost himself since it had to double as some kind of gadget.

"Not like you can take it apart," his current room mate said from the door. He looked up and grinned at the flier, who flexed his dark wings under the scrutiny.

"I'm not going to." He flipped it up and caught it again, feeling the heft and the lack of detectable signals coming from the small object. "I'm sure I'll see him again. I'll just hang onto it for now."

 


	3. Chapter 3

"You can't keep doing this."

Jazz glanced over at where Wheeljack was working on what remained of his left hand. The two friends were in quarters on one of the engineer's rare days off. It had likely been intended for Wheeljack to recharge through the day to make up for lost recharge during his usual shift, but the moment the engineer had seen the mangled condition of his friends' hand, he had hauled Jazz to the desk and started repairing.

"I saw a medic before coming to quarters," Jazz protested mildly, sipping some energon with his free hand. "Wouldn't be on medical leave, else."

"I'm aware, or you'd still be out there." Wheeljack finished a weld and sat back, tapping Jazz's wrist when the younger mech started to flex his hand. "None of that. I'm not done. What I'm sayin' is, pal, you need help out there. Your job isn't a one-mech-show."

"I've got help." To resist the temptation of flexing his left hand again, he raised his right to smooth over his helm, carefully avoiding his horns. "An' I use it. But my job also ain't somethin' anyone can do. Ain't about t'send someone t'do somethin' I can do better."

"Ain't about to send someone to do somethin' you feel is too dangerous for anyone but you, you mean." The engineer shook his head and got back to work, carefully replacing shredded cables and smashed joints. "Taking the worst assignments for yourself is the stupidest thing you do."

"Careful there, pal."

"I mean it!" Wheeljack's headfins were lit with a dark and pulsing light. "You're my friend, Jazz, I know your skills. I also know your pitfalls and this's one of them. What if you're under radio silence when one of your people really need you? There's a reason Axle stayed in the base--"

"Axle stayed in the base because he'd lost his edge," Jazz protested mildly. "How d'you think I was able to beat him so easily?"

"I wouldn't call what you did easy," Wheeljack retorted. "Jazz. Listen to me. You're the best at what you do. You're also extremely distractable and a' officer, now. You need to pay attention t'what that means."

"I'm not about t'be a desk-mech, stuck in Iacon, swamped with padwork," Jazz told him, tipping the chair back to rest on the wall. "I can coordinate best in the field."

"Sometimes. Just...be careful." The engineer finished the last of the tiny welds and closed the armor covering the back of the agent's hand. "Done. What about findin' someone t'be here when you can't be?"

Jazz fell quiet, visored gaze pointing at the ceiling. "That's not a bad idea," he murmured finally, rubbing his left hand with his right. "I wonder..."

Wheeljack watched, then shook his head and began putting the tools away. "You're on medical leave. That means no leavin' Iacon, remember? Whatever crazy plan you've got in your processor's gonna have to wait until your hand adapts to those repairs. Even you can't do your job one hand down."

Jazz flashed a grin, standing with a stretch. "Get some recharge, pal. You're gettin' cranky. I've gotta mech to find."

"Which means...?" The engineer's headfins had lightened in color, but his optics had not. "I'm warning you, those welds aren't going to hold unless you keep that hand immobile for at least a solar cycle."

"I will, I will." The black and white flapped his other hand in a gesture he meant to be reassuring. "Take it easy, enjoy your day off. I'm just gonna go trade in on a marker an' put some pieces into place t'get your plan in motion."

"My plan?"

"Your plan. I'll bring you a present."

"Make my present you coming back in one piece with some sense in your helm!"

Jazz paused at the door, turning back with a confused expression. "With what in my helm? I thought you wanted me back in one piece!"

"Just go," Wheeljack sighed, though he couldn't hide the soft chuckle in his voice.


	4. Chapter 4

So much had changed on Cybertron, yet so much stayed the same as well. The streets he walked, the casinos he frequented, the buildings he crashed in were darker, dirtier, emptier, but still around. The racketeering gangs had been thinned out to the most ruthless, the most clever. The clientele were the hard-core types to ignore the flashing lights, the glitter and chrome, processors intent on one thing. The draw of the chance at meager riches, the siren rush of risking it all for one more toss or deal.

Having spent the majority of his adolescence in places like this, Smokescreen didn't mind it now. He had left, briefly, his knowledge of the way mechs ticked breezing him through a degree in Behavioral Science from the University of Iacon. His optics combed the room, looking for something he couldn't quite define. The games were just that to him, games, but he still couldn't pull his processor from them for long, despite being incredibly bored with the motley assortment. It was always the same, no matter the theme of the building. Dice, cards, computers.

"What if I could offer you something new?"

The voice was soft, musical. Something he had only heard twice, long ago. He glanced over, expecting someone much different from the smallish black and white mech with red and blue trim and a light blue visor. "Excuse me?"

"Games of chance really lose their spice when you know the secrets, don't they?" The mech stretched, resting his hands behind his head. Smokescreen noted the left hand was held stiffly, covered protectively by the right. "You've got the look of a mech who needs a better thrill."

"And you can give that to me?" He'd seen hustlers before and knew he probably didn't want any part of what this youngster was selling. Still, the silver voice was working into his processor, sifting through his memory files.

"All that, a place t'sleep an' a steady flow of energon."

Mentally, the gambler sighed. He had heard that before, from Autobot recruiters. "I'm no soldier," he said, turning in a physical rejection as well as the verbal, "but thanks anyway."

"Time comes," the visor mech murmured, "you're gonna have t'pick a side. Make sure you're backin' the right runner. Hate t'see a smart mech like you trade on a bad name."

Smokescreen froze, his hand moving to his subspace pocket and a well-worn chip dropping out into his hand. No wonder the voice sounded familiar, but this youngster couldn't be-- "Ghost?"

"It's a name."

**

The youngster had never shifted from his relaxed pose of completely vulnerable, hands behind his head, weight resting on one foot placed marginally behind the other. Smokescreen could see, however, in slight tells of posture and expression that his hand was bothering him, he was slightly tense and was as much aware of everyone in the room as he was of the door. It was likely that the black and white mech could, because of the seemingly casual stance of his feet, spring in any direction at a moment's notice. Interesting. "But is it yours?"

"Does it matter?"

There was only a hint of a signal from the mark in Smokescreen's hand before it shifted. Startled, he partly opened his fingers to see why and with no further prompting it flew from his palm to the casually outstretched ebony hand of his companion. Instinctively, he grabbed after it, only to have his hand grabbed by the mech's uninjured one. The two locked gazes, then broke into grins, turning the grab into a handshake. "I guess not."

"C'mon, let's get outta here." The black and white turned, pivoting on one foot, to stride for the door. "I've got a proposition for ya."


	5. Chapter 5

"What do you want?"

It was much later, in a much different environ. Smokescreen had been treated to a proper wash, paint and refueling, all on his new friend's credit. The youngster had casually mentioned, in the middle of watching the repaint, that Smokescreen should probably use the name most of his friends used-- Jazz. And that the gambler should only use that name, unless the black and white otherwise said. It was something Smokescreen tucked into the back of his processor and readily agreed to.

Their conversation since had been the usual give and take, banter and barter, both mechs verbally circling the other and dropping gifts of knowledge in subtle hints and word choices. It was the most difficult such conversation-come-negotiation Smokescreen had experienced and despite the influx of energon to bolster his flagging energy reserves, he was growing tired of it.

Jazz looked as fresh as when they were standing in the casino two days before-- fresher, actually, since he was no longer favoring his left hand, both weaving the air into the graceful tapestry of his pure silver tones. It was a voice that could draw any mech in with its cadence and convince them that they were in love. It would then break their sparks in such a way that the mech in question would love him for it, despite the pain. It was amazing the black and white was so good at such a young age. He was the one who made the conversation into a fencing match, a repartee of advances and retreats.

But Smokescreen's abrupt and blunt question had done what all his cleverest quips and most thorough psychoanalytic evaluation hadn't been able to do: brought Jazz's attention to him directly. The visored mech's reply, though, heightened Smokescreen's attention just as much.

"You."

He allowed his optic ridge to tick up ever so slightly, an agreeable smile still adorning his lips. "Me."

Jazz tipped back in his chair, sipping the high-grade he had been working on for the last two hours. "Way I figure it, the marker I gave you saved your life."

The blue and red mech gave a single sardonic chuckle. "If you hadn't knocked my marker aside with it I would have won that round."

"And attracted the attention of the casino staff." Jazz gave him a benign smile. "They would have detained you past your deadline, making sure the winnings were legit. We both know the place wouldn't want you t'cash out that amount of chips easy."

Smokescreen thought back to that day, weary processor pulling up dim images from his memory banks. His sensors had marked the then black and silver mech crossing toward the cashier's cage but not after...he had disappeared until after Smokescreen had walked out of the payment meeting. "So you're laying claim to my spark, then?"

"Nothing so crude."

Smokescreen became aware, abruptly, of a subtle static pulse extruding from the mech sitting across from him. It was blanking all but the most sophisticated of his recorders and those were losing just about every other word. It was also making him just dizzy enough to give Jazz a dirty look, which was greeted with a smirk. Sitting back in his chair, legs crossed at the knee, elbows resting comfortably on the padded arms, he rested his spread fingertips together and activated his own disruption fields. He increased their strength until they matched the ones coming from the black and white mech, canceling out the effects of both, then one notch further, noting with interest the subtle change in shade of the other mech's visor.

Jazz stood, somehow shutting down both fields with that one movement. It surprised Smokescreen enough that he didn't immediately process what the younger mech said next.

"Good. Now, come with me."

**

The silence in this place was astounding. Smokescreen thought back to the private booth he and Jazz had shared in the dark club: that had seemed quiet, with the muted murmurs of the other clientele and the light shush of the waitstaff. Compared to this lack of sound now, the club was thunderous. The silence here was oppressive and alive, the slightest sound seemed offensive to the surrounding walls and buildings. It was shocking, also, to see the state of said walls and buildings: this was High Town Iacon, second only to the grand Spires in its pomp and pageantry. It didn't seem right that the soot and dark sediment that stained the rest of the city should also debase these proud and self-isolated pinnacles. But mar them it had, bringing their bright shapes down just the same as it did the worst casino he had been in. That war was the great equalizer was a truth not even these shining monoliths could deny.

Those who lived here-- perhaps who had lived here would be more appropriate-- were Cybertron's elite. The differences between them and those who lived in the Spires were only in their own processors, unintelligible to the rest of the population. To the average population these were the same pampered royalty that peered down on the rest of the planet from their lofty perches, with incomprehensible rules guiding every word spilling from their chrome vocalizers, every movement down to the smallest servo.

From the way he moved, Smokescreen could tell that Jazz was familiar with the Spires formalities, like a second alt mode. However, High Town was a completely different game. And, Smokescreen surmised, one that would be fascinatingly challenging. He knew without being told why they were here: the Army needed credit, both in actual chips and in the few remaining social courts of the world, like this one. The old saying that an Army marched on its fuel tanks was only half true; it marched on the good graces of the ruling class as well as the quality of its energon.

To Smokescreen's advantage were two things. One, he wasn't spark-tied to Jazz's goals. He could cut his losses at any time. Two, the rich, particularly those who had inherited the bulk of their credits, were perpetually bored. They were always looking for new and exciting ways to spend their chips-- in other words, they were gamblers, like him.

The first thing on his mind at the moment, though, was getting some rest. The so-far three solar cycle journey had left him numb in the extremities and aching in the processor. Thankfully Jazz was pulling into the walkway of a small yet probably extremely expensive hotel, nodding to the clerk and passing right through the lobby without pausing to ask room assignment or get a key.


	6. Chapter 6

The next time he woke, cranium aching slightly from the engex the the high town mechs had been drinking the night before, Jazz was standing over him, gun in hand.

He froze, processor instantly online and optics on the other mech's face. What, after all, did he know about the mech, if anything? What if he--

"Stop revvin' your systems an' get up."

Smokescreen relaxed, sitting up with one hand on his helm. "Slaggit, mech, you could kill a mech doing that."

"You've got good reflexes," was Jazz's response, accompanied by a slight smirk. "Why didn't you reach for a weapon?"

"Good way to get shot is to have a gun," Smokescreen shot back, "thank you." The last was for the oil the black and white mech hand handed him. He drank it down, feeling the gentle mineral mix soothe his taxed systems.

"Better way to get shot is not have one. Can you shoot?"

"Passively." Jazz handed him the weapon he had been holding and Smokescreen suppressed a reaction of surprise. The electro-disruptor rifle fit his hand perfectly. "What's this?"

Jazz was already heading for the door. Smokescreen wondered if he had slept at all or if he had been up all night getting the weapon and paying for the room. They certainly didn't stop to pay for it on their way out and no one came screaming after them for an unpaid bill. Jazz didn't reply until he had led Smokescreen through another maze of tunnels, though this time the red and blue mech was able to keep track of where they were going. He got the feeling this wasn't a secret place or perhaps Jazz was not trying as hard to confuse him now that their pact had been signed.

"This is trainin'. To get in close t'Prime you can't be a passable shot, you gotta be able t'hit most anythin' from any level."

Smokescreen lost track of the days they spent training on one battlefield or another. When he realized that Jazz wasn't simply training him in how to shoot but the more subtle nasties of war he didn't object; he had known that the war would invade his life at some point.

What he did protest, or would have had Jazz been around to hear it, was abruptly being abandoned. Suddenly, after almost three full lunar cycles of constant companionship, Jazz was simply nowhere to be found. His contacts treated Smokescreen the same way they had treated Jazz, with a guarded humor and respect, the army folded around Smokescreen as if he were Jazz with a different paint job and quieter ways. It wasn't until he saw Ratchet, the medic who always verbally bashed the black and white mech while repairing them both with gentle hands, striding toward him with a dark scowl that he realized that it wasn't normal for Jazz to have left him alone.

"You're Jazz's mech," the medic growled, hauling Smokescreen around by the shoulder. "So where the slag is he? Prowl's in fits, Prime can't raise him on comm and even his room-mate Wheeljack hasn't seen armor plate or bolt of the mech in close to a week. What is it, some kind of secret mission that only you know about? Talk!"

The bluster was a fantastic bluff, but facade it was. Smokescreen kept a straight face, hiding the compassionate smile he knew Ratchet wouldn't appreciate. "We were supposed to meet a few solars ago," he said calmly, ignoring the way the medic's jaw ground with frustration. "But he never showed. I was under the impression that Prime had sent him somewhere that he didn't want me along. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that--" Ratchet stopped short and looked around. Mechs had paused in their walks and while they weren't watching the pair, their audios where hardly offline. "Come with me," he growled, dragging Smokescreen a couple of steps.

The red and blue mech gently freed himself from the medic's grip. "I'll come," he said quietly, "but I will not be dragged. Where are we going?"

Ratchet turned to glare again, but merely huffed and nodded. "To Prime's office," he said, lowering his voice. "If you don't know where Jazz is, you'll know where to get his information."

Surprised but not willing to show it, as Jazz had taught him that much at least by example, if not outright, Smokescreen followed the irate medic. He knew that angry couldn't be Ratchet's default mode or his patients would avoid him like the Cosmic Rust, but now was the wrong time to ask. He filed away the note for later, to talk to the medic and see why Jazz trusted him so absolutely.

They reached the Prime's office to find the chaos of multiple screens, all streaming tactical information. Optimus turned, optics narrowing when he saw who Ratchet had brought and with a slight gesture, the screens went dark. The large mech's gaze flicked to Ratchet and the medic held up red hands in a placating gesture. "I know. But he's been shadowing Jazz for the last half stellar-cycle. He should know his projects."

"Thank you Ratchet," Optimus rumbled, his optics now fixed on Smokescreen. Thanks to some hints Jazz had dropped about the Leader of the Autobots, the gold-trimmed mech was able to stand up to the gaze without being intimidated-- at least without being /very/ intimidated. Even if you knew the mech had a sense of humor and was fair to his troops, it was still hard withstanding his best glare. "Return to the medical center and let me know when Wheeljack is back online."

"Will do. Tank some energon." With that growled order, Smokescreen was left alone with the Prime, matching his optics squarely.

"I know who his contacts are," Smokescreen volunteered after a moment of tense silence. "I'll contact them for you if that's what you need. But--"

"I'm not going to ask you to betray his trust," Optimus rumbled, "I need to know where Ironhide and the Arialbots are. They dropped out of contact in the wastes. Jazz trusts you but I don't know you, nor are you officially a member of this army. I will give you the benefit of the doubt, but that's it."

Interesting. The mech was as smart, and as quick, as Jazz had indicated. Smokescreen nodded and opened his comm, opening a slight disruptor field around himself so he could talk in private, even while under the Prime's sharp gaze.

"They're with the Wreckers," he said finally, close to half a megacycle later, when he was sure he understood the code and jargon that was being tossed around on Jazz's network. "Kup and his crew found them pinned down and got them out. The lot of them disappeared into the Wastes."

Prime half turned away, to an image of Prowl that Smokescreen hadn't seen behind the large mech. The tactician's icy gaze had an intriguing amount of worry in it for such a normally stoic mech. "I heard," Prowl said, glancing down at something outside the comm's range. "We can't do anything until the Wreckers contact us or Ironhide does."

"Agreed," Prime rumbled, finally sitting in his desk chair. The move was tired, with a groan from his joints that matched that assessment. Without thinking, Smokescreen unspaced some midgrade and placed it on the desk, drawing a sharp look from both mechs. After a moment, Prime picked up the mid-grade and drank it down.

"Sir--" Prowl protested, but the large blue and red mech waved a hand, cutting him off.

"One of Jazz's people wouldn't poison me," he said, "and I scanned it carefully. It's nothing but mid-grade. Sit down, Smokescreen. Are you going to remain a neutral or are you going to join us? We don't have much to offer but a safe place to recharge, at the moment."

"What would his rank be?" Prowl wanted to know, frowning.

"Seeing as how we've lost ours," Prime said after a moment of contemplation, "and we need one, he'll be morale officer, until his talents are known or Jazz suggests otherwise."

"You think he'll come back?" Smokescreen asked, his frown much slighter than Prowl's.

"I do," Prime said in that deep rumble, with traces of accent from the same area Ironhide hailed from. "The mech is a bit like bad energon. He always manages to make his way back to where he started."


	7. Chapter 7

**

Personal log, 587 DW.

It's been a vorn since I last had the urge to pick this up and move my thoughts from processor to pad. One must record ones research to stay ahead of the game. Notes on mechs of interest:

Jazz -- The Autobots on Autobase Iacon seem to have three reactions to his presence / mentioning his name.

1) Tirade of curses, insults, expressions of the need for his incarceration. Allegations of everything from betrayal to gross laziness.  
Subnote: not many are willing to insult him to his face. Somehow even those contemptuous of his perceived behavior sense something perhaps dangerous from the mech.

2) The majority reaction: fond jibing. Recollections of odd behavior, his skills when he was a scout, impotent wonder what the mech is up to now. 'A good mech, if a bit off.'

3) An extremely small subset who seems to know more about him than I do. The reactions here vary from assertions of protectiveness to calm statements that border on warnings, even threats, to not look too hardly at how he spends his days. Oddly, these come from officers such as Prowl, Ironhide and Ratchet as well as rank and file mechs like Blaster, Sideswipe or Sunstreaker.

Prowl -- High ranked tactician. A very strong front on this mech. Stoic, logical. Does not willingly go off duty, has no hobbies save for games of strategy which, arguably, are a way of life and not a hobby. Not many approach due to rigid stance and almost grim expression. Extremely intelligent in matters of tactics and law, seems to find social interaction for the sake of relaxation baffling. The only times I have seen him outside the battle field or his office other than going to and from meetings is in Jazz's company. Will likely need to get on his good side to get close to Prime.

Ironhide -- Battle worn. More is going on behind his optics then he lets on. Extremely old-- possibly of pre-war generation. Takes his post seriously, takes recreation seriously. Sometimes I can see his amusement at some of the antics of the younger mechs (everyone seems to be younger than him, not sure if this is a tight enough distinction), but he doesn't often attempt to correct behavior of off-hours mechs unless their actions endanger others. Wise, intuitive, intelligent.

Ratchet -- DO NOT GET ON THE BAD SIDE OF THIS MECH. Does not appreciate 'stupid damage', is more than willing to speak his mind to anyone, including senior officers and Prime.

Wheeljack -- Jazz's current room mate. Possibly the most underestimated and overworked mech besides Ratchet in the Army. Extremely intelligent, intuitive, highly sensitive but heavily armored both psychologically and physically. Loyal. Friends with Ratchet.

Optimus Prime -- The mark is a strange mech. He is confident but not arrogant and takes council in stride before making his own decision. He is straight forward yet compromising, dignified and

Jazz has appeared at my door.


	8. Chapter 8

He had discovered the scanner outside his door quite by accident. There were several such discoveries in the room he had been assigned which had led him to believe that the fact that he had gotten this particular room was not an accident but yet another careful manipulation by Jazz. It made one wonder just how deeply his feelers were sunk into the Autobot system and what would ever happen if the youngster ever decided, or was forced, to use all of them at once.

The scanner was how he knew who was at his door, who was walking by his door or the general state of the area around his door. It was a valuable thing to have. Right now it showed a distorted image of Jazz, which was also interesting since none of the others who had been caught in its optical view had been anything but perfectly clear. Smokescreen rose and let the mech in, noting the scuffs on his armor and faint smell of badly processed energon which followed him.

Before he could say anything, Jazz flipped him an object which his scanners told him not to handle too roughly. The visored mech then just about collapsed back onto a couch that Smokescreen had moved in only the night before. Not one to be a bad host, Smokescreen wordlessly went to get him some low-grade.

Only once Jazz had finished the ration and looked a bit more sociable did he examine the object in his hand. It was a small vial, clear to show the violently purple liquid inside. It sloshed when he turned it, but slowly enough for him to know that the liquid was ticker than oil, for all it didn't cling to the sides of the vial. He turned his optics from the vial to Jazz, vocalizer activating to ask what the liquid was, but found the agent soundly in recharge, empty energon ration loosely in one hand.

Which left Smokescreen to figure the broth out on his own. He had, almost in another life, gotten certified in the kinds of chemicals that it was legal for a mech to imbibe. He even had a license, one he never quite forgot to renew, to brew and dispense such chemistry. While in a licensed facility, of course.

Letting his guest sleep off whatever had knocked him out, Smokescreen unspaced a small tray and plugged it into an isolated computer terminal that was not, as far as he had been able to test, connected to any outside network. It wasn't even connected to the basic Cybertronian Information Network. He carefully opened the vial, unleashing a smell similar to that of an unhealthy crystal grove, sickeningly sweet with a heavy dose of acrid bite, and poured the smallest drop he could manage onto the tray.

**

The large blue, silver and red mech regarded him steadily, expression unreadable. The vial, which was the size of Smokescreen's thumb, was barely half the size of Optimus Prime's. It glittered in his hand almost prettily.

"He's in your quarters?" The large mech rumbled, voice also unreadable.

Abruptly Smokescreen realized that he could indeed read this mech, simply by the lack of emotion he showed, as well as the shifts in his posture. Optimus Prime was very practiced at being a Leader and hiding his true thoughts about a given situation against those he normally worked with. Smokescreen, however, had been built and trained for reading what others didn't want him to see.

According to Smokescreen's experience, Optimus Prime was concerned for Jazz and puzzled over what the small vial held.

"He is," he said, standing at ease and studying the commander with something of the same expression that he was being scrutinized. "He came in, had some energon and promptly passed out. I don't think he's in any danger but Ratchet agreed to look in on him shortly."

Prime gave a minute nod and hefted the vial as if its weight was far more than it appeared. "This?"

"He gave it to me before he started to recharge. I think he was going to tell me what it was." Before Prime could ask the question, Smokescreen leaned back slightly, getting comfortable on his feet. "It's comprised of mostly legal chemicals." He rattled them off quickly, trusting the commander to at least be recording the conversation so would be able to look up the information later. "The last one, the illegal one, is only there, I'm assuming, because of how addictive it is. The rest combine into a stimulant so harsh it could kill a mech very easily. On the street it's called Purple."

They both contemplated the vial momentarily. "Not the most original name."


	9. Chapter 9

The large mech was standing in the doorway, watching the slim black and white figure move. Though each sweep of arm and leg, every movement of hand, foot and waist was graceful to the point of beauty it was also touched with more than a dose of deadly portent. The gestures were a combination of dance and martial art, even the extra flares with a potentially violent purpose.

Jazz, following some internal rhythm, lowered his torso until his head was level with his hips and twisted at the waist, pushing off from one leg into the air and defying gravity long enough to turn completely over until his chest was again facing the floor, arms kept tucked tightly in. The horizontal spin was followed by a pitch forward into a hand spring which landed him on his feet with his back to Optimus Prime. Instead of simply turning to face him the smaller mech used his momentum to fall backward into a bridge, raise his feet into the air and tumble across one shoulder to arrive within a few feet of the Leader of the Autobots.

Optimus was not entirely surprised to see him smiling.

"Now only imagine," Jazz said, not out of breath in the slightest and in conversational tones, "if we had an indoor obstacle course for trainin'."

"From how you trained Smokescreen, I'm considering making you a partner to Spinout," Optimus told him mildly.

"You've met 'im, then?"

Optimus regarded the young mech standing before him, fine-tuned sensors spotting details that all save Ratchet would probably miss. Despite his performance Jazz was verging on undercharge and his systems were showing the strain of withdrawal from some essential supplement, though the Prime didn't know what. Silicon, possibly. "I have. I thought you didn't want to bring him in yet?"

A shrug, the movement loose and relaxed. "I saw a danger of losin' him to...various things." He raised his arms to rest his hands behind his head, elbows akimbo. Resting the tip of one foot on the ground he shifted his weight to the other leg, too restless to be casual.

"I don't even want to know what bargain you struck to get him here." Optimus shook his head, knowing that the internal comm he opened to Ratchet would be detected by Jazz's constant scans of everything around him. "But he is a good fit for both the Morale Officer post and at least second to the current head of psyche. We'll see where that goes."

Jazz grinned and slipped into a sweeping bow. "I live to serve."

"No," Optimus said, feeling the way the corners of his optics crinkled in a smile, "you serve to live. Are you on the Purple?"

All movement from the black and white mech abruptly stopped.

Then a huge grin that was, as far as Optimus could tell, genuine, shone forth.

"Primus!" Jazz whistled, laughing. "Who dripped the acid in your audio, Ratchet're Smokes?"

A tolerant look was all Optimus allowed himself. "Jazz." He made sure his tone was only mildly rebuking, so as not to trip the sometimes skittish young mech's warning sensors. He wanted honest responses from him, not more verbal sparring. "We both know you left Smokescreen's quarters before Ratchet could scan you. He can't write or send a report on a mech who isn't there."

"Sure he could," Jazz scoffed, raising his arms in a stretch. "But it's good you know he wouldn't 'cause he's so brutally honest. T'answer your question, no. I know better. Run a mech t'struts, that stuff. 'Specially when it's combined with other chem. You like 'im, then?"

It was always something of a mental exercise to keep up with the black and white. Optimus tolerated his antics with the hope he would steady out with age-- and would survive long enough to get to that age. The gamble was paying off in the short term already and it looked as if it would be even more lucrative in the long run. "I do, actually. Jazz--"

"Trust him?"

"Within reason. Stop talking." The look the Prime leveled at Jazz stilled him momentarily, which the larger mech took as a victory. "I know you brought Smokescreen in for a reason, other than he was in the neutral territories. He is a good mech, seems to be reliable and trustworthy, knows and obeys most of the Autobot code. I want you to explain what exactly is this about."

Without saying a word Jazz crossed the room, locked the door and aimed a small device at the corners of the room. Only once he was done did he turn to face the Prime again, expression hard to read. Just as Optimus was about to tell him he had permission to speak the younger mech nodded slightly.

"I'm a field mech," Jazz said, locking gazes with his commander. "I enjoy puttin' smiles on mech's faces an' bein' a shoulder to lean on but what I love, what I live for, is bein' out in the field, plyin' my trade, doin' what feels right in my programmin'. I was created on the streets, probably die out there. Only two things mean more t'me than bein' out there."

Optimus waited, but Jazz kept going, not explaining what those two things were. It was incredible, the Prime supposed, that the mech was baring this much of his spark in the first place.

"Morale might be a part of my business, both to create it an' destroy it, might be somethin' I enjoy doin'. But it's not somethin' you want me concentrating on. I'm better spent elsewhere. I'm the best agent you have an' you know it."

Blue optics regarded the young mech before him, examining his posture, the dents on his form, the brightness of his paint and visor. Jazz did shine, he knew, in the field. And when Jazz had heard the whispers in the net that Optimus was considering taking him out of the field to one, possibly save his life and two, give him the job of his other great talent, the young agent had gone to get what could be considered a perfect replacement. The Prime momentarily wondered if Jazz should be assigned to handle, or at least have a say in, all promotions and postings.

"I want you to survive to see the end of the war, Jazz." Optimus rumbled. Jazz just about laughed in his face.

"You want everyone t'survive to see the end of the war. Don't mean it's gonna happen." He rocked back on his heels. "I know you're not a gambling mech, but let me give you a proposition."

"You have until Ratchet gets here."

"More'n enough time." Jazz rocked back on his heels again, then settled to, of all things, a military at-ease. "You test Smokescreen. Make him your head of Morale, give him the toughest cases. He's trained in it, he's good for it. If he ever fails you, I'll go on desk duty for the rest of the war. No more field expeditions, confined to base, even while on leave. For as long as I have the Autobot sig in my FOF."

"What do you get?" Optimus asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. The bet didn't sound like something Jazz would stake his beloved field work on. And to be confined to base, unable to visit the city save on special pass and then for a limited amount of time? Even while on leave? That was certainly not something Jazz would be willing to do, not voluntarily. That was what Jazz's punishments were made of.

"If he don't fail you by the time you realize you trust him explicitly to handle your deepest darkest secrets, by the time you're willin' to tell him anythin' about anyone, even yourself, I get free leave. Honest to Primus free code t'do anythin' I want, whenever I want. I handle missions my way. Give me free code, no questions asked."

That rocked the Prime back slightly, several voices in the Matrix speaking out against the idea. A free pass on anything? "I won't give you free code on murder."

Jazz's cocky grin returned. "We're all murderers here, Prime. Ain't a soldier lived that wasn't a murderer. I'll amend, then. Free code, the only questions are asked afterward an' if I don't explain myself an' my motivations to your satisfaction, the usual punishment'll apply."

Optimus Prime found himself nodding slowly. Most of the Matrix agreed, the only holdout a voice Optimus was willing to ignore. He studied Jazz and found nothing deceitful in his form or voice.

Their hands clasped, wrist to wrist. Or as close as two mechs with their size differences could get. "It's a bet."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first version of the ending to this fic. It's set in the Shadows AU, in which the Battle for Autobot City in 2005 never happened.

"Jazz!"

The black and white mech turned, a ready smile on his face. It turned very slightly to a more genuine one when he saw who was hurrying to meet with him. "Now there's a mech I'm always glad t'see. How's it runnin', Smokes?"

The Datsun shook his head slightly with a smile for the Porsche, falling into step beside him. His optics automatically adjusted to compensate for the difference in light between the inside of the City to Earth's bright solitary star. "Always?" He asked, "I can remember quite a few times when you not only gave me uncharitable looks but were distinctly unhappy with my presence."

"Always tryin' t'psychoanalyze me," Jazz chuckled, guiding their path toward the large lake on the other side of the valley. "When you gonna learn that Jazz ain't one who can be fit into a box?"

"On the contrary, my friend," Smokescreen shot back, relaxing into their familiar banter, "you fit into several boxes."

The agent laughed, nudging his fellow in the side. "Ratchet'd love that one. What can I do for ya?"

A thoughtful pause shed some of the smile from Jazz's face, his demeanor shifting to one of readiness. He was on guard, now, braced for some kind of exertion, be it mental or physical. "It's about that bet," Smokescreen said.

Jazz relaxed, though no one who didn't know the mech almost to the point of intimacy would notice. "I've made a lot of bets," he quipped.

"The one you made with me about Optimus." Smokescreen noticed, while he said the words, that he and Jazz were now on the exact other side of the lake from the City. Far as two mechs could get while still in sight of the pumpkin-hued towers. A private place for a private conversation, without arousing the wrong kind of suspicion. Mechs observing them would probably think they were plotting...whatever it was that Smokescreen and Jazz plotted while on private walks.

There was a betting pool going that neither mech was supposed to know about, so of course they both did. They both had their bets in, placed discreetly under other names. What was the fun, otherwise?

"That bet." Jazz rested his hands behind his head, a habit never outgrown. "I see. We both know you won, long time ago. Calling in my marker?"

"I don't know if I ever will," the Datsun mused, gazing absently out at the lake. "What I find stranger, though, is that you never intended to win that bet. Or even wanted to."

Jazz glanced over with a slight roll of his head. The movement wasn't needed with his visor but he knew mechs liked the reassurance he was paying attention. "What makes you say that? Never's a strong word."

"You made a corresponding bet with Optimus."

The Porsche began to grin. "Oh, did I, now?"

"Yes. He told me about it."

The grin grew wide, but this time Jazz didn't give Smokescreen a verbal response. The Morale Officer didn't need one, beginning to laugh. "So you lost one, but you won the other, I take it?"

"I won both," Jazz replied, continuing to walk around the lake, his humming matching his smug smile.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second version of the end of this fic. It takes place pretty much in the standard Generation One timeline, in which the Battle for Autobot City in 2005 did happen. It is j/p.

There was something so raw about the mech now that others hesitated to approach him. It was like the raggedy edge of his spark, the bleeding gouge where Prowl had once been, was painted on his armor instead of concealed behind his chestplate.

Smokescreen knew what the mech had lost. It was similar and yet so much worse than what everyone, including Mirage, had in their backstory. Jazz had lost, literally, everything. Half his spark. His family. His home. His very reason for existing.

It was that edge that the psych officer knew he had to bring the black and white back from. Even if it meant that Jazz would hate him for the rest of his life. As Jazz had once said to him, better that a mech hate someone for taking away a choice than hate themselves for the choice that had to be made.

Which was why Smokescreen's hand landed on a shoulder no one else dared to touch. A shoulder which stiffened and whipped away from the physical contact, his aura screaming the pain his vocalizer refused to reflect. A cool nod and empty expression replaced what had been an easy smile.

"We need t'talk, mech," Smokescreen said, finding it oddly uncomfortable to be playing Jazz's role to Jazz. Like an understudy caught performing the lead to the actor he was involuntarily replacing. There was no acknowledgment except for a slight nod.

The two traced a silent path away from the ruins of the once-great City, toward the still and silent lake. The bright light glaring from the surface of the water highlighted the lack of care Jazz gave his form these days, divots in his armor, scuffs on his paint. Smokescreen found himself glancing down at his own finish, noticing he too had been neglecting physical appearance in exchange for something which seemed much more important in the moment. They were almost to the other end of the lake before Jazz spoke.

"I'm leavin'."

The rasp and tarnish covering the once-silver tones made Smokescreen want to wince. It was though someone had poured gravel into Jazz's vocalizer, shook it around and finished off his throat with some sand paper. It obviously hurt to talk and explained why he spoke so little, since the battle.

"I know," Smokescreen said, trying to pierce the solid blue visor to see beyond to the mech's true expression. "I heard. I wanted to catch you before you...where will you go?"

"Kaon."

It made sense. There were no memories, as far as the Datsun knew, for the agent there. He pulled something out of his subspace pocket and offered it to the Porsche, the sunlight flashing off of the silver chrome surface surrounding a blue crystal. Jazz stopped short, looking startled by an artifact of his life before, well, everything. His gaze rose to Smokescreen's searching optics, indicated by a slight uptick of his chin.

"I'm calling it in." Smokescreen plowed on before Jazz could begin to object, if he really intended to. "You said I could ask you anything."

"Anythin'," Jazz echoed, in either acknowledgment or in disbelief. "What do you want?"

"You." The Morale Officer shook his head at the obvious implication. "I don't want you here. I don't want you for anything you might think. But I want you to live. Go to Kaon, bury yourself in some other life. But don't follow them. Don't make someone else kill you and don't take your own life."

The silence stretched until Jazz began walking again, this time back toward the city. Smokescreen hurried to keep pace with him, though Jazz's steps were too unsteady for him to be able to fall into stride with the black and white. "Jazz--"

"I'll check in, once a vorn." The former agent glanced back at the Datsun. "Marker paid in full."


End file.
